


The Advenure of Sir Peacock's Household

by tinawiththeglasses



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Canon Divergene, Case Fic, Deductions, Drama, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Halloween, M/M, Masquerade, Murder Mystery, well...sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinawiththeglasses/pseuds/tinawiththeglasses
Summary: Holmes and Watson are invited to attend a party for- well, like-minded gentlemen- heeding the invitation of an old friend. Not only does Holmes go voluntarily, he even ends up enjoying himself! Everything changes, however, when their anonymity is at stake, and a body is found in the kitchen. How did it get there? Who killed him? And most importantly- can Holmes save all those men from public exposure?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	The Advenure of Sir Peacock's Household

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Chapter 1 – The invitation

The October of 1887 had been a particularly trying month- not merely for me (my old wound was constantly plaguing me on account of the weather; making me rather unpleasant company), or Holmes, who struggled to find sufficiently intriguing cases, but for the entirety of the United Kingdom, as the tension which had been building for the past 20 years or so, due to the ever-growing divide between man and politics, slowly became tangible.  
My friend dropped the newspaper with the familiar grunt of frustration.  
“London's criminal landscape is as bleak as the weather...”  
I lifted my head. His black moods worried me, especially now I myself was not in prime condition. It meant I might not be able to shield him from the infernal temptation of the cocaine bottle.  
“What about the dead politician? It is rumoured he could not possibly have committed suicide.”  
Holmes chuckled somewhat bitterly. “I should think not. It is a strange fellow indeed who shoots himself in the forehead at more than an arm's length.”  
He turned to me, demonstrating the ridiculousness of such an action.  
“No, Watson, the man was executed by a group of workers. He was a member of the District Council of Poplar. The suicide theory is merely a ploy put in place by the police to keep the public under control.” He let himself fall back into his armchair with a gesture of indifference. “A pretty mess they made of it, Watson...allowing their secret to surface in the papers. I wonder if Mycroft knows...Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Perhaps it is for the best....”  
I could see his gaze wander out into the greyish-brown wall of fog behind which our city lay hidden.  
“I wonder what has become of England....where it will all go. Will the future be as glorious as we like to paint it? Or is it yet another elaborate story, constructed to shield us from the ugly truth?”  
His eyes had drifted back inside and fallen upon an advert for biscuits in the newspaper on the floor in front of him. It showed a fanciful depiction of the future, with flying police, an hôtel on rails and people walking on water. It was ridiculous. Hardly reason enough to yield to gloom.  
It was with some relief, therefore, that I responded to a knock on the door.  
“Come in!”  
Mrs. Hudson shuffled in, carrying a number of letters. The morning post had arrived.

I had felt growing excitement upon being handed the envelopes, which faded into helplessness with every letter I opened.  
“Anything of interest?” Holmes asked. Clearly I was not the only one to hope for some change in the deadly boredom of our days.  
“Nothing, Holmes. I am sorry. Only the usual letters of admiration, and an invitation for a masquerade on All-Hallow's Eve.”  
I heard an annoyed grunt from the armchair.  
“Very well. I understand this kind of social gathering is nothing for you. I will burn the letters from the ladies, and let Mr. Trevor know we will not attend his party.”  
Strangely, the name evoked some reaction in my friend.  
“Wait, Watson! Hand me the invitation.”  
I did so, rather bewildered.  
“By jove! What a surprising turn of events.” He looked up at me. The spark had returned to his eyes. “Say, friend Watson. You would not mind two or three days in the country-” he raised a meaningful eyebrow. “-among like-minded bachelors? He had the kindness to invite both of us.”  
“Like-minded bachelors....like Colonel Hayter?”  
“Precisely.”  
“Well, I am more than happy to attend!”  
“That is fortunate! I will send a reply at once!” Holmes migrated to his desk, where he jotted down a quick telegram, as was his custom.  
I decided to let the matter rest for a while. Curiosity did get the better of me over luncheon however, so I addressed the mysterious invitation.  
My inquiry was met with a chuckle.  
“Suffice it to say, that the arrangement predates you, dear fellow. Our companionship hardly lasted six months, and ended with me having found a profession, and him selling his house and leaving for India.”  
Needless to say I was utterly perplexed. Although we were nearing our anniversary as “intimate companions”, I still considered him as an isolated phenomenon with neither kif nor kin- nor close friend for that matter.  
However, Sherlock Holmes never failed to surprise me. He had done so the evening I had looked him in the eyes with shaking hands, and told him how I felt- only to find the sentiment was very much mutual. He would do so again some time later, when, in the most nonchalant way possible, he would reveal his family tree to me.  
"Holmes! I...I was unaware! Did this Trevor really introduce you to detective work?"  
My friend smiled, and leaned back in his chair good-humouredly. "All in due time, Watson. I said "suffice it to say", and suffice it must. Halloa, what's this?" he had jumped to his feet with delight, following the ring of the doorbell. "A client! Ah, that is music to my ears! I will take any problem she will put before me now. Another day of boredom would have been the end of me!"  
And thus, my first attempt at learning about Holmes' past came to an abrupt halt.

Thankfully, the case kept the two of us occupied for a fortnight. I had forgotten all about the invitation until my companion mentioned it to me a few days after the successful conclusion of the latest problem.  
"Well, Watson?" Holmes said cheerfully, as he stood by the fire, lighting a cigarette. He was still fuelled by the euphoria of a job well done. "Have you decided on a costume yet?"  
"Costume?" It struck me the moment the word left my lips. I slapped my knee in anger over my own forgetfulness. "The masquerade! Of course!"  
My friend chuckled in his silent, inward fashion. "I can hardly fault you, dear fellow. I admit, it almost slipped my mind as well, had I not found the invitation during the hunt for a certain file."  
"I don't doubt you have an endless supply of costumes..." I mumbled, rather annoyed at the fact I had no means of procuring any sort of appropriate dress. Bitterly, I considered using my old uniform, as it served as little more as than a reminder of my time in the army, and the injury which had sent me home, and, indirectly, into Holmes' arms.  
Again, my friend appeared rather amused- this time in a mischievous manner. "I think no one would appreciate a drunken stable boy, or an old priest on the premises. Although it would make for a fine practical joke, I will admit it."  
I could see from his expression that he pictured the scenario in his head. Eventually, he returned to the present and sat down in the armchair opposite me. His knee brushed against mine. I was aware it was no accident, but rather a gesture of affection.  
"As entertaining as the idea may be, I am afraid we must settle for something more conventional." his steel-grey eyes met mine. "In fact, I have taken the liberty to consult someone who agreed to help us out of this crisis, Watson. I hope you will forgive me for choosing a costume for you."  
"I trust your judgement, Holmes." Chimed I with some relief.  
"Excellent! I promise, your trust shall be rewarded."  
"Oh? What is it you chose then?"  
My friend shook his head. "You must exercise patience. Two more days and you shall see."  
"Very well." I was not pleased by this sort of secrecy, but I knew my companion well enough to be conscious of his love for the dramatic.

Chapter 2 – Arrival at Norfolk

Two days later, on the 29th, we found ourselves on the train to Norfolk, where Mr. Trevor's residence was located. The two of us were vibrating with excitement- I rather more than Holmes. After all, I had almost given up hopes he would ever voluntarily leave London purely for recreational reasons. The holiday also gave me a chance to find out more about his past- perhaps even his youth. The prospect of meeting someone who could...humanize Sherlock Holmes was thrilling to say the least.  
Well...I suppose I am doing him an injustice. The more I got to know the great detective, the more he revealed himself to me. We had hardly been together a year then. Both of us have changed- though I am confident to say- mostly for the better. Now we are approaching "middle-age", and the last remnants of youth give way to the first signs of age, we begin to settle down. Even Holmes' once endless resources begin to show signs of slowing; which I, who has had my share of adventure long ago, can only appreciate.  
But then, in the autumn of 1887, when we were barely 30 years of age, and much of my friend's life and character still seemed an enigma to me, I jumped at the chance to learn more.

A handsome lad, hardly 25 years of age, awaited us upon our arrival. He showed us to a Clarence, or Growler, as they are more commonly known these days, and stowed away our luggage. Polite as he was, there was an air of anxiety about the boy- like someone who is afraid of missing an appointment. I decided to keep my thoughts to myself, knowing the staff were preparing a party back at the house. Yet, my friend's strained expression told me, he too had noted something.  
As soon as the Clarence rattled into motion however, our thoughts returned to the holiday ahead of us.  
The estate was situated about a thirty-minute ride from the station. Never before had a country homestead struck me with such beauty. The large fence surrounding the premises was lined with oak trees, which had turned the most beautiful shade of orange. The leaves gave the appearance of having been set ablaze, as the last rays of golden sunlight shone upon them. The drive up to the house too was lined with clusters of orange, which gradually turned red as we approached the vine-covered old house.  
The building was just as lovely as the rest of our surroundings- an archetype of Georgian era architecture, with only a few, more modern elements.  
"Dear me...Trevor always has been an old romantic. I see his taste hasn't changed." Holmes remarked with some amusement, as the carriage came to a halt.  
Dimly, I perceived the sound of a piano from an open window, and wondered whether it was our host, who was producing such harmoneous melodies.  
A butler appeared to welcome us, before I could lose myself in my thoughts. "Welcome, Messrs. Holmes and Watson. Mr Trevor is awaiting you, and your room is prepared. I will have your luggage sent up at once."  
"My colleague's title is Doctor Watson. Unless you were expecting someone else." Said Holmes suavely.  
The servant reddened at his mistake. "I beg your pardon, doctor. I am inconsolable."  
"Now, now. It is really alright."  
Despite his age and grizzled hair, the butler's appearance spoke of grace and respectability. I was certain the lines on his elegant face were the hard-earned fruits of a life of labour.  
He proceeded to take our hats and coats, and guided us into the sitting room, where he announced our presence.  
We found two men there: one who had turned his back to the door- with hair the colour of honey, and sporting fashionable, almost foppish evening attire- and another, brown-haired, dignified gentleman in quieter, more elegant clothes. The latter was the one playing the piano.  
Both of them turned their attention to us upon the butler's entrance, displaying equal delight.  
"I say! Holmes! Dr. Watson! Welcome to our humble abode!" The blonde man got to his feet to shake us heartily by the hand. He lingered after greeting me. "It is an honour, doctor. I've been thoroughly looking forward to meeting you in person. You must tell us all about your adventures over dinner."  
"Well, I am honoured- but would you not prefer to chat with your old friend?"  
He smiled, and declined with a jovial wave of his hand. "Pah, we have all of tomorrow to dwell on old times." Stepping back he continued. "Now, gentlemen, let me introduce you to Mr. Elias White. The public knows him as my valet, but really, he is my better half."  
The man blushed noticably and proceeded to shake our hands with a civilized "How do you do?"  
Soon the butler, whose name I learned was Huntley, made another entrance in order to serve the aperitifs. Inevitably, the conversation moved to all things India, whence Trevor and White had only recently returned. The two of them were very pleasant company- even White, who had appeared so quiet at first glance, soon partook in the conversation wholeheartedly.  
It seemed mere minutes until dinner was served, when in reality, it must have been closer to an hour. Like any engaging interaction, the topics jumped from one to the other, ranging from amateur sports, to the tulip mania of 1637, to Socrates and his impact on modern literature.  
The discussion slowed down over our meal, which was, I suspect, when his natural curiosity got the better of my companion. "I could not help but note the formidable assortment of boys which makes up your staff. Quite unusual, I must admit."  
"Funny thing, that." Trevor replied. "They're not really ours- well, at least not yet."  
Holmes tilted his head. "How so?"  
"They came with the house." White explained. "And since the legal papers are still in the works, we will not be able to sign the contract until November."  
"I see. Are you satisfied?"  
"Well...we could not say for certain. We have only been here for about three weeks, and haven't any reason to complain so far, but..."  
My friend raised an intrigued eyebrow, which instantly alerted me. I had no desire to spend this holiday alone among strangers while he disappeared to solve crimes. Any attempt to keep the old hound from catching a scent would be hopeless- as I had to learn during the Reigate incident earlier in the year.  
"Oh really, Victor. There's no need to spread rumours. The poor lads have enough on their minds as it is."  
Sentences like these were always the nail in the coffin of a peaceful time in the country.  
"Oh? Has something happened?"  
I grabbed Holmes' hand and looked into his eyes- pleading to let this problem be someone else's.  
"We are on holiday. Please, allow yourself some free time?"  
I could see the struggle in his features.  
"It is simply curiosity, Watson, I assure you. No crime has been committed as far as I read it, therefore there is no reason for me to do anything but listen." he intertwined his fingers with mine, and I knew I had lost.  
"Not to worry, doctor." Trevor confirmed. "This goes for you too, White. I am not spreading any rumours, and nothing has happened. But I would be surprised if you hadn't noticed the tension among them. You could cut it with a knife!"  
"We attributed it to the preparations." I answered.  
"See? The doctor agrees. There is nothing more to it." White exclaimed with a mixture of relief and frustration in his voice.  
"Nonetheless- don't you think it curious there are no female servants in this house at all? Not even a housemaid?"  
"Not really. Sir Thomas is...particular in that regard. He created this household to be alone among men. It is not commonly known, of course."  
"Indicative."  
"To put it mildly."  
"The estate belongs to Sir Thomas Peacock? The adventurer and tradesman?" I asked in surprise.  
"The very same." Trevor replied with an air of pride. "We met in India and started a contract. I would sell him tea, which his company would ship out into the world. He learned of Elias and me, but rather than showing disgust, he revealed himself to us, and offered to sell us his country house- which was fortunate, because I refused to buy back the late Dad's house."  
"You see, we told him of our plans to return to England."  
"He made us a very generous offer- just £8000 for the whole thing. Staff included."  
Holmes whistled. "That is very generous for an estate of this size."  
"Sir Thomas likes to look out for his own sort, Mr. Holmes. He is a very kind-hearted fellow."  
"Isn't he married? I remember seeing a photograph of them in the papers. I never knew he was...well...one of us."  
"Yes, but the whole thing is a farce- a blind to avert suspicion."  
The moral part of my character rejected the idea. What a loveless marriage it must be, when one party has unwittingly entered the arrangement merely to for show. The subject weighed heavy on my consciousness for a while. Yet I must admit I emphasized with the man.  
"Be that as it may-" Chimed Trevor, reaching for his glass. "Let's toast to Sir Thomas' generosity, which made this unlikely reunion possible."

And thus ended the first day of a promising stay in the country- well, at least as far as the mystery was concerned which was about to unfold.  
We had been given a room at the far end of the house, whence we returned after some light conversation in the smoking room. I am positive the somewhat exiled placement of our room was neither an oversight nor hostlity, but really a matter of privacy- as our hosts knew exactly how two confirmed bachelors like to spend the quiet hours.  
Those moments of absolute freedom always felt strange to me; overwhelming, even. When two men spend their days and nights doing everything in their power to hide their love from the public, it becomes second nature to them. Subsequently, they forget how lovely, yes how vital true intimacy is to the human soul. When it does occur, however, I am reminded of how blessed I am to have found someone who allows me to express this strange affection, and who never fails to remind me that I too, am loved.  
I could feel Holmes' intense gaze upon me the entire time, from the moment we entered our room. My heart was pounding with anticipation. There was no need for quiet that night; no need to bite my wrist in order to muffle those sweet sounds of passion.  
His eyes followed me as I closed the curtains and lit a candle, and I put myself in his shoes, or rather- put him in mine. I pictured what he saw and put him in my stead- his slender frame vaguely outlined underneath the coarse fabric of his nightshirt against the light of the candle.  
I turned around and smiled. There he was, in the flesh, smiling back at me with all the tenderness of a smitten schoolgirl.  
The flickering light of the candles complimented his handsome features, and brought forth the actual warmth of his dark-brown hair. His half-closed lids did nothing to lessen the sharpness of his steel-grey irises which reflected his intellect.  
Thankfully the man smiling at me from the sturdy wooden bed was not Mr. Holmes, the cold thinker; the Great Detective to whom all the world turned for help. This was Sherlock- a man trying not to shiver beneath thick blankets in a well-heated room- who looked to me- John (for I was never Dr. Watson when he was not Mr. Holmes) for much-needed and well-deserved love. Without the context of his intellect and his profession, the air of mystery surrounding him vanished entirely, leaving nothing but a human being.

Chapter 3 – A new day

Another thing which is not often granted to those of the invert-variety, are quiet mornings in bed. In most cases those mornings, if they take place at all, are cut short by housekeepers, maids, or worse still- clients. Not so there, as every inhabitant of the house was the same way inclined.  
Slowly, the exploits of the bygone night returned to my mind. The memory of Holmes' knuckles turning white as he clung to the bed in ecstasy; my own name whispered hot against my skin; his tight grip in my hair- and lastly, the feeling of utter exhaustion which guided us into a pleasant night's sleep- all of it filled me with a sensation of utter pride and accomplishment. To know one has pleased a lover so completely, gives a sense of satisfaction which a week of work could hardly achieve.  
I smiled and turned around. Holmes was still asleep. He had turned his back on me. Carefully, I wrapped an arm around him, trying my hardest not to wake him. Although his skin was warm, I was certain his hands and feet were freezing cold. They almost always were, and it was nearly impossible to find a remedy.  
My nose was pressed against his back, allowing his scent to pour into my consciousness. After all these years, I still find it hard to describe it. Perhaps the idea of walking down a street around Christmas, where a Barber's, a bookshop, a chemist, and a Pub are located next to each other, would best describe it. There was, of course, the eternal odor of tobacco, which characterizes most men, as well as smoke from wood- and coal fires- then there was a hint of sweat (for which I suppose I am to blame), something akin to paper, the faintest ghost of expensive eau de toilette, and a hint of acid or some other chemical.  
One single breath was enough to transport me back home in my mind's eye, and relive a great number of happy evenings.  
How long I lay dreaming I do not know, but eventually I was torn from my reverie by a drowsy "Good morning, dear fellow..."  
"Good morning, Holmes. I trust you slept well?"  
"Adequately." There was mischief gleaming in his eyes as he turned around to face me. He had been joking. "And yourself?"  
I shrugged, but failed to hold back a smile. "Just fine."  
He laughed sleepily, resting a hand on my chest. "Please, doctor, next time I make any complaint whatsoever about going to the country with you, just whisper "Norfolk" in my ear. I will gladly accompany you then."  
"It is noted."  
"Splendid."  
"Do you know what we will be doing today?"  
"Hopefully not much in this dreary weather."  
"How do you know what the weather is like? The curtains are still closed."  
A smile briefly lit up his features. There was nothing he enjoyed more than surprising someone else. "The diffuse shadows on the curtains speak volumes, Watson. They also tell me the fog will, likely enough, not lift all day. Hence, the assumption that we will remain inside, where it is warm and dry."  
"I suppose we shall see soon enough." a tranquil silence fell over us, until an idea came to my mind. "Holmes?"  
"Hmm?"  
"You still haven't told me about the case which connects you and Trevor."  
Again, my companion smiled. "I never knew you were in the habit of taking your notebook to bed with you."  
"Oh, I am asking out of curiosity, rather than professionally. For as I understand it, the story is not suited for the public eye- at least not without some drastic changes."  
"Au contraire, Watson. The case itself is easily published- but I am afraid you will be disappointed. I might have solved the matter, but only played a very minor part in it. Besides- the story lacks the satisfaction of justice your readership craves. There is a decided element of sensationalism, however."  
"Well, since your name is about to become a household word-"  
He gave a short laugh, yet I continued. Holmes liked to present himself as a man of perfect reason, who- in his own words- "does not rank modesty among the virtues". Though he repeatedly contradicted this statement by downplaying his own abilities, or quietly blushing at compliments. So it came as no surprise to me, when his reaction was to laugh at the idea of fame.  
"-I rather think my readers would be very interested to learn how you came about your profession. Especially because you take every opportunity to remind us you are the only consulting detective in the world."  
He pouted at this. "Very well, I will tell you- but I have you know that I do not take every opportunity to remind you. I simply..." Holmes paused. "...use it to underline my authority before uncooperative persons."  
"Oh, I see. Please forgive this ignorant misinterpretation of your intentions."  
"You shall be forgiven- but only this once." He replied half sulkily, half teasingly. "Now, do you want the story or not?"  
"I am palpitating with excitement!"  
"That's better. Well, as I have told you, it all started at university. It was on a Sunday, and I was on my way to chapel when-"  
There came a knock on the door. "Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson. Mr. Trevor sends me to inform you breakfast will be ready in half an hour, and hot water has been carried to the bathroom for you." With the Butler's announcement ended my second attempt at learning more about the tragic, and mysterious story which lay behind that chipper man Trevor.  
I looked at Holmes with some exasperation, but he simply shrugged.  
"Come, come, my boy! I promise you will hear the end of the story as soon as we have some time to spare, but I have no desire to do my toilette with cold water. Perhaps this will console you for the time being." Before I could respond, a soft, lingering kiss was pressed against my lips.  
"Yes." I said at last. "I rather think it will."

Nothing of particular interest happened that day, except for the fact that we did venture out into the cold, much to Holmes' dismay.  
I could hardly complain, for the landscape, changed as it was, had not lost its beauty. The thick, white fog, and the glistening frost covering the grass beneath our feet as we walked, made the grounds feel mysterious- as if the entrance to Avalone had opened up right before our eyes, leading us into a distant, hazy past.  
Despite the joy and beauty of an enchanting autumn day, we were glad to return home.  
We encountered the Butler in the entrance, berating the footman and the page.  
"Now get back to work." he growled, and the two of them disappeared with bowed heads.  
"Good afternoon, sirs." he bowed briefly but gracefully upon seeing us.  
"Good afternoon, Huntley. Is everything alright?"  
"Yes, sir. The boys just needed a little reminder of their duties."  
Trevor acknowledged his answer, and went on to order some tea for the four of us.  
Well, the rest of the day was spent much like the last: with dinner, good conversation, and a taste of Mr. White's musical talents to top it all off.

Chapter 4 – The night of the party

Finally, the day we had all been waiting for arrived. It had been clear from the moment Holmes and I went down to breakfast, that the tensions which had been building among the staff had severely increased. The usually quiet house had come alive with nervous energy. Constant orders from the Butler, and other instructions were to be heard. Decorations were being hung on the walls, doors were open and closed in a never-ending stream of motion, and the smell of various dishes- sweet and savoury alike- filled the atmosphere even before luncheon.  
Not even our hosts were spared the burdens of organisation, which resulted in Holmes and I traveling into Norwich to be out of the way.  
We returned just in time to dress for the occasion.

"Now, Watson." my friend said proudly, with a hint of uncharacteristic nervousness. "The time has come to reveal your costume. I commend your patience, and thank you for it."  
He handed me a soft parcel, wrapped in brown paper.  
"If you would be so kind as to wait until I have left the room, so the surprise will be more effective. It pains me, as I would not mind seeing you with no clothes at all- but it is a sacrifice I must make."  
"Who knows?" I replied with a sly grin. "Perhaps you will have your way later tonight..."  
He mirrored my expression. "I can but hope."  
The next moment, he had vanished into the adjoining room. I was left behind grinning like a fool and shaking my head at Holmes' eccentric manner.

As I started to unwrap the ominous costume, brown paper gave way to, what appeared to be red silk and velvet, delicately embroidered with golden thread.  
I spread the whole thing out on the bed in front of me, and could not help but laugh when I saw what Holmes had found for me. It was a silken devil's costume- complete with tail and hood with horns attached to it. The velvet I had noted on unpacking really turned out to be a cape.  
Funny as it was, clearly this costume was of great quality, with its golden embroidery, and craftsmanship in ever seam.  
Reluctantly, I put it on, wondering why my partner thought it appropriate to have me dress up as the Dark Lord. A glance in the mirror gave me the answer. Without wishing to flatter myself, I had no choice but to admire the effects the red silk had on my appearance.  
"Holmes!" I called to the other room. "I am ready. Are you finished?"  
The door swung open, and out came Holmes, shrouded in a heavy, hooded cloak, and sporting a black, pointed hat like those witches wear in the children's books.  
"Abracadabra!" he exclaimed, waving some sort of crooked, wooden wand. The whole outfit somehow made him appear even more elegant and authoritative than usual.  
"Dear me, doctor! What a handsome devil you are!" he cried and graced me with another impish smile. I exhaled sharply though my nose, as one does when expressing mild amusement.  
"Don't tell me the only reason you bought me this costume was so you could make a joke."  
"I cannot blame you for thinking it. And, to be entirely honest, it did occur to me- but no. There were other reasons. Mostly because nothing else was available at such short notice- well, at least nothing suitable. Knowing your love for high quality silk, I rather thought you would like it."  
I paused. "Alright, I admit it. You chose well."  
"Ha! I knew you would!" He was practically bursting with child-like joy.  
"So, am I to believe the wizard was the only other thing you could get your hands on?"  
"Again, it is one of the reasons." He grinned at his little, private joke. "Since those who avail themselves of my services like to compare me to a magician, I could not deny the irony in turning into one for an evening."  
I chuckled quietly. Although his idea of humour was strange (as he was aware of, and even said himself on several occasions), I could not help but appreciate it.  
"Well, then, The Amazing Mr. Holmes, let's manifest a drink, and see who has arrived yet."  
"Are you trying to tempt me, Mephistopheles?"  
I cocked my head in a playful manner, and offered to link arms with him. "Oh, I rather think there is no need for that."  
To my great surprise his expression changed in an instant, now speaking of tenderness. "You are right. I have given you my soul long ago."  
In typical-Holmes fashion, whatever had gotten hold of him vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and he returned to his old, proud self.

The house was beginning to fill with strange and outlandish characters, and each of them in the perfect temper for a pleasant evening among like-minded men. Some of the more noteworthy costumes we encountered were a bat, Robin Hood, and a sans-culotte.  
We were offered cocktails from one of the serving-boys, and then set out to find our hosts. It was quite the task, considering the mass of masks, extravagant hats, and false beards, rubbing shoulders on the premises. Unsurprisingly, it was Holmes who spotted Trevor.  
"Ah, there they are! I would recognise those slightly bent legs anywhere."  
We approached the two men, who had assumed the appearance of two musketeers.  
"If the evening progresses like this, it will no doubt be a successful party." White said with uncertainty.  
"Let's just wait until Sir Thomas arrives. It's his party, really. We just agreed to host it."  
"Do be so kind and remind me never to do this again."  
"You're exaggerating, Elias."  
White raised an eyebrow at his partner.  
"We're sorry we had to forgo our duties towards you this morning."  
"Quite understandable." Holmes nodded. "What puzzles me, however, is why you would agree to host such a large event when you have only just settled in."  
"You know what it's like, Holmes. Sir Thomas asked us if he could have one last party before selling the house for good. Yes, it's a bit much, but we felt we owe it to him."  
My companion quietly acknowledged the information before continuing. "How are the staff doing now? Have the tensions resolved?"  
"Goodness, no. We will have to make some changes once the house is ours. Speaking of the devil- here he is."  
A murmur went through the crowd, as a man entered the room. Although he was short and of feminine build, Sir Thomas Peacock positively radiated with flamboyant energy. His entrance would best be compared to an actor walking on stage at the beginning of the first act. His dress only added to it, for he had chosen to sport the attire of an 18th century nobleman, and he did it in a way which would have been certain to make Mozart blush.  
Although the country squire was really over fifty, he moved and spoke like a lad of 20. His powdered wig and black mask around the eyes helped a good deal in concealing his actual age.  
On most occasions, when one wishes to make a toast, or deliver a speech, one needs to attract the attention of ones guests first- I believe I need not mention that Sir Thomas was the exception that proves the rule. Everyone's eyes- including mine and Holmes' were already fixed on him.  
"Welcome, gentlemen! I'm delighted to see so many of you decided to flock to this old house one final time. After all, they don't say the more the merrier for no reason, eh? Don't forget that you are among friends, so there is no need to hide. Not tonight. Other than that, I can only ask you to enjoy yourselves and celebrate until the early hours of the morning! Thank you!"  
Some men clapped, but most broke into enthusiastic chatter.  
I looked at my friend and saw his narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Even he was not immune to the sheer fascination the man exuded.  
"Watson, I have just discovered a new field of study. I really wonder how it has escaped me for so long! I think I shall write a monograph upon the subject as soon as we return to Baker Street." he muttered at long last.  
"What is that, Holmes? Deducing the behaviour of people at social gatherings?"  
My friend shook his head. "What is to be learned about a person from looking at their choice of costume. It is most suggestive."  
Just as he said it, the crowd parted, and Sir Thomas entered our little circle. He bowed, according to his costume.  
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes- Dr. Watson. I'm honoured to call you my guests."  
"The honour is ours, Sir Thomas." said I. Holmes merely smiled appreciatively.  
"Trevor here told me you were acquainted, but I wasn't aware he would invite you. I am pleased he did. You see, I'm a great admirer of your work, gentlemen. Both of you."  
"How very kind of you." It was Holmes' turn to speak.  
"I would very much like to witness your work in person someday- see what is true, and what has been embellished for the narrative's sake."  
My friend smiled sarcastically. "With respect, Sir Thomas, but my expertise is crime- and as much as I shall be happy to take on any little problem which you might present to me, it means something unpleasant has happened."  
"Of course." the businessman replied humbly. "Well, perhaps then you'd consider sharing some of your cases tonight. It is all hallow's eve after all, and a few of your more gruesome stories would be the high point of this party."  
While I beamed at the opportunity, Holmes merely forced a polite smile which faded into a deep frown as soon as he turned around.

The festivities continued for about two hours. Groups were formed, splitting into smaller fractions of men, who pursued different recreational activities. Some migrated to the smoking room to chat, some (most likely partners who seized the chance to finally express the pent-up, unfulfilled romance which is the fate of our kind) danced a slow waltz near the quartet, and others ventured into the large dining room to play games. Somehow- I believe it was the fault of Sir Thomas' gift of persuasion in equal parts as the sentiment Holmes felt towards both myself and his old friend- we found ourselves among the latter party. In the beginning, my colleague restrained himself, in order to make an actual effort at allowing others to win. Sometime between the Minister's cat and Charades, however, our companions discovered Holmes' identity.  
Never before, and never thereafter have I seen him partake in any social event with the same enthusiasm as on the evening of October 31st 1887.  
Granted, the alcohol might have been partly to blame, but I find it highly unlikely, considering the events which took place later that night.  
I rather think he simply enjoyed himself, and revelled in the excitement with which his unique skills were received- even if it was only a game of Forfeits.

"Dear me, Watson!" he laughed, and flung himself down on a sofa, once the game was over, and we had joined Trevor and White in the music room.  
I felt a cool hand wrap around mine upon settling down next to him. Even on the third day there this sort of freedom felt strange to the point of being uncomfortable. Holmes didn't seem to care.  
"Did I not tell you I would act as a magician tonight? My little show was so successful, I should consider changing my profession!"  
This particularly amused Trevor, for he laughed loudly and exclaimed. "Goodness, Holmes! My late Dad would roll over in his grave!"  
Of course, this made me prick up my ears. I had forgotten all about Holmes' promise to share the story of their friendship with me over the course of the day. I was eager to inquire, now that another chance presented itself to me.  
"So it was really your father who introduced Holmes to his profession?"  
Trevor cocked his head. "He hasn't told you how he came by it yet? Well, I'm hardly surprised." he turned to my companion. "You always were dreadfully secretive about your relations."  
"Well, doctor it's a lengthy story, the whole business, but I'll attempt to make sense of it." he paused to think. Suddenly, there came a loud thump, followed by the high, terrible scream of a woman.

Chapter 5 – The beginning of the mystery

Alarmed, some of us stormed out into the hallway, where the sound had come from. To our great surprise the place was empty, save for some concerned guests.  
"What happened? Who was that?" Sir Thomas pushed his way past the confused onlookers.  
The atmosphere turned cold as ice in an instant, and an eerie silence settled over us. The fear among those men-myself included- was palpable. Everyone knew that not a single woman resided in this house- not even the usual maids. A female scream meant an intruder had entered- which in turn could only mean exposure.  
Sir Thomas broke the silence. The crowd of men began to move again, as if simultaneously awaking from a trance. "Please, gentlemen! There is no need to fret. We will find an explanation for whatever happened. We have no proof anything...unfortunate...has happened- and until we do, I suggest you go back to the music room and have a drink. After all, we have the famous specialist Mr. Sherlock Holmes on our side."  
Reluctantly, the crowd dissipated.  
"You will help us find the intruder, won't you, Mr Holmes?"  
He nodded resolutely. "But I cannot make any promises."  
"Do whatever is necessary to avert a scandal. I beg you." he dashed down the stairs towards the entrance, calling out for the Butler. He received no response, except for some frantic footsteps and a door opening.  
"Willis! Parker! Have you seen Huntley?"  
"No, sir, but we heard the scream and came to see if all was well!"  
"Good. Good. Well look for that confounded man Huntley and send him my way. But first, go and search the house for the woman. The doors are locked, so she can't have come very far."  
"Aye, sir." The Footman said. "Parker, you take the west wing, I take the east."  
And with that, the boys disappeared.  
Holmes examined the stairs and the carpet above and beneath, but was unable to identify any feminine footsteps.  
"She must have come in by a window then..." He muttered. "Watson- go and speak with the guests, and see if someone knows something. I will have a look at the windows on this floor."

Life inside the music room had resumed. Drinks were being poured to steady nerves and ease minds. The news had spread quickly, putting an end to the festivities.  
I made my rounds asking other guests whether anyone had seen anything out of the ordinary- or if anyone had spotted a woman at all.  
I even applied Holmes' favourite approach of directly asking the men whom they suspected. Needless to say, it did not yield any great success.  
My friend returned soon thereafter, having found nothing except the fact that all windows were bolted, and no one had attempted to gain entrance.  
"That is excellent news, Watson, for it tells me whoever alerted us must still be in the house. The return of the page and the footman will tell us more. Did you find anything of interest?"  
"Nothing, Holmes. I am sorry. But..." I pulled my friend close, and muttered underneath my breath, "Do you really think we are in danger? It might have been one of the boys after all..."  
He looked intently into my eyes. There was a fire burning in them- a sign he was taking the incident more seriously than he allowed anyone to see.  
"I am not frightened of an intruder, Watson- if there even is one. What worries me is the thing which caused someone to let out such a harrowing cry. There is more to this than meets the eye."  
Holmes then slipped into the mass of costumed men, surely to ask those questions which had not occurred to me. I followed behind, if for no other reason than to learn.  
Best friends began to suspect each other, and gossip was being shared. Some told us the house was haunted- which, in their minds, accounted both for the scream and the absence of a woman in the hall. Of course, Holmes dismissed the notion.  
"I might be wearing a pointed hat, but I am unable to perform exorcisms- or whatever ritual is needed to rid oneself of ghosts. No, Watson. That yell was as real as you and I- and by jove, I will get to the bottom of it tonight." My friend muttered in response.  
We were on our way to speak to the staff of the house, when Parker, the page, returned. He whispered something to Sir Thomas, shook his head, and then returned to his duty. His master was now drumming his fingers nervously on the table, and downed the rest of his drink.  
Holmes attentively watched the scene play out, before walking over to the boy.  
"Parker, is it?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"What have you found on your search?"  
"I'm afraid I found nothing, sir."  
"Nothing whatsoever?"  
"That's right, sir. Just empty rooms."  
"Well, what about earlier this evening. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? You are the page after all."  
"Not that I know of, Mr. Holmes, sir. I let in the guests, and when everyone's arrived, I locked the door and went to help out with the drinks as per my instructions."  
The colour drained noticeably from the lad's face- so much so, I was afraid he was going to faint.  
"Is something the matter? You look ghastly." I asked quickly, preparing for the worst.  
"It's just...." he paused and took a deep breath. "If all of this becomes public- I'll be out on the streets for good. No house will ever want me again...it...it frightens me, sir."  
Holmes and I shared a sympathetic look.  
"Come, come." My friend replied soothingly. "The Doctor and I will find the lady and all will be well. But you must be honest, or I might not be able to do anything for you."  
"Well, sir...there was this man- dressed like a harlequin- with chequered suit, and black cap and all. He was making eyes at Sir Thomas all evening, is all. It might be nothing, sir. I don't know...I just thought it was a bit strange, you see- I didn't see him talk with anyone else."  
"Well done, Parker! Well done!" cried the detective. "Did he have an invitation?"  
Parker nodded. His breath was shaking. "No one get past me without an invite, sir."  
"Splendid. Your help is of infinite value. Now go and sit down where I can find you."  
He took another deep breath before we left. I did my best to keep an eye on him, in case he was really going to faint.  
Holmes slipped through the crowd of men like a snake through the jungle. The only way I could follow him, was by looking out for his pointed black hat, which stood out among the mass of colourful feathers and hoods.  
"Sir Thomas! A word, if you please."  
Our host spun around on his heels. "Mr. Holmes! Have you found the intruder?"  
"It all depends. Have you seen anyone dressed like a harlequin?"  
"A harlequin?" he paused. "Yes, I believe I have. Though I have no idea who he might have been. I haven't been able to greet everyone in person tonight, due to the high attendance."  
"No matter. Do you keep a list of-"  
"Sir Thomas! Sir Thomas!" Willis, the footman pushed his way through to us. "Something terrible's happened!"  
"Dear lord, what is it?!"  
"It's Huntley, sir! He's dead!"

Chapter 6 – The end of Butler Huntley

A small group of us followed Willis into the kitchen, where we found the Butler. The poor devil- eyes wide open, a broken nose, and a terrible wound on his head. One glance was enough to confirm that he was beyond human help.  
"Is that how you found him?" asked Holmes.  
"Aye, sir."  
He then turned to me. "If you would be so kind as to give your professional opinion, doctor?"  
I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling rather ridiculous in my outfit. "Certainly, Holmes."  
"Tell me exactly what you saw, Willis. Omit nothing."  
"I'll try, sir- but there really isn't much to tell. I was looking for anyone who shouldn't be here, but didn't encounter no one- until I came down to the kitchen and found him lying there- god rest his soul. That's when I ran to tell Sir Thomas."  
"You didn't stop to see if there was still life in him?"  
"All due respect, sir- if I see a man stare back at me like that, with his head bashed..., I ken that I'm looking at a dead man."  
"I see. I take it you started your search from the top of the house?"  
"Aye."  
"Would it not have been more practical to start from the cellar?"  
"Well, sir- I thought if I were hiding in a house this size, I'd go to the attic where no one's looking. Nobody ever searches the lumber rooms.I went to the ground floor last because, please excuse my language, sir- you've got to be right stupid to hide where all the guests and staff are."  
My colleague raised an eyebrow. "Stranger things have happened, Willis."  
None of us had taken note of Parker's arrival. Only when someone- presumably White- exclaimed, "Watch out, he's going to faint!"  
In an instant, Sir Thomas, White, and even Willis were by the boy's side. The latter attempting to hoist him to his feet while growling "Parker, you idiot..."  
This was met with annoyance from his master. "What was he even doing here? He knows he drops dead at the sight of blood!"  
Holmes and I were left alone all of a sudden- a fact for which I was grateful. It did not take much to tell he felt the same.  
"Please, share your verdict, doctor."  
"It appears he took quite the beating, Holmes. His nose is broken, as is his left arm. Then there is this large wound on his head...and there seems to be some sort of metal in it."  
"Was the wound fatal?"  
"Very much so. The other injuries are minor, when compared to the wound on his head. It must have bled considerably."  
He joined me on the floor with an intrigued hum, and began examining the body for himself.  
"Do you have a handkerchief?"  
I touched my devellish suit for pockets, but alas, there was none. "With my belongings, upstairs."  
"Ah, no matter, I believe I have one here." He rooted through his own pockets, and pulled a handkerchief from his cloak before taking the whole thing off, and hanging it over a chair. The result was Sherlock Holmes without a jacket, but with the added bonus of an almost comical witch hat. As soon as he had rid himself of his woollen burden, the detective dabbed carefully at Huntley's open wound and examined the blood stain in the orange light of the gas lamps.  
"Curious..."  
Before I could ask what those golden particles were, the fabric and its contents disappeared in one of his vest-pockets, and he continued his search.  
His movements were as focussed and swift as usual. Diligently, my friend pushed, touched, tested, and sometimes sniffed.  
It was clear he had picked up a scent the moment he jumped to his feet and dashed out of the room. There would be no use in asking, for I was well aware he would not speak a word until he had either confirmed or denied whatever it was he had found.  
So, I quietly followed him in an attempt to perhaps understand his chain of reasoning.  
Our first stop was the dining room where we had spent two hours playing games earlier that evening. How much had changed since then...how much HE had changed.  
Holmes looked around, seemingly taking in every detail. He then proceeded to move one of the chairs, and examine the polished wooden surface of the dining table. Once he had satisfied himself of whatever needed proving- or disproving, my friend looked closely at every single one of the baroque candlesticks which were placed around the room.  
We eventually reached the hall, where the entire mystery had begun.  
I watched my colleague examine the carpet once more, grunting and humming all the while.  
As so often, he inspected every surface minutely, paying special attention to the door knobs and a cabinet, which stood near the cellar door. I believed for an instant, he was about to return to the dining room, but Holmes stopped in front of the door. It seemed he had discovered something on the doorstep.  
And then, at long last, after having sifted through the ashes in the fireplace, Holmes raised his voice.  
"You may stop fidgeting, Watson. I have solved the matter."

Chapter 7 – The mysterious woman

We returned to the music room. An absolute silence lay over the house as soon as the door opened. The quiet weighed heavy upon us all. I could hear my own heart beating loudly in my chest, and feared I would be unable to breathe for much longer. The atmosphere felt oppressive. I slid my hood from my head, and watched the crowd, hoping to find some sort of reassurance. All I did find was fear. There was Parker, holding an empty tumbler in his shaking hands; and Trevor, whose glistening, reddened eyes betrayed the true state of his nerves.  
Seconds began to stretch into eternities before my friend finally lifted the curse.  
"Gentlemen- all is well. There will be no scandal. We are safe." A wave of visible relief passed through the attendees.  
"But who killed Huntley? And what became of that woman everyone's been talking about!"  
Holmes considered his actions for a while.  
"I am afraid I cannot tell you. Everything that happened tonight has happened in order to avoid a scandal. It is within our best interest to keep it that way. I must therefore ask all of you to return home."  
The men exchanged uncertain glances- not knowing whether to rebel and lynch the perpetrator, or to comply and leave.  
Sir Thomas was the first to see reason. "Given Mr. Holmes' countless successes, I see no harm in listening to him. Hayes, you will take over Parker's duties until he has recovered."  
One of the other lads who had been serving drinks made his way into the hall in order to let everyone out. One by one the men, who had arrived in such high spirits departed- no more than frightened shadows of the colourful personas as which they had arrived.  
30 Minutes later the premises were almost empty, but as quiet as if it housed no one at all.  
"Now, gentlemen- let us reveal the lady who has given us such a fright. Willis, would you be so kind as to accompany us in case she plans to escape?"  
"Aye, but...where is she?"  
"In the cellar."  
"What?! But that's not possible! I locked it!"  
"Yes, but you did so some time after you were sent to look for her, since you told me you started your search at the top of the house. Most likely, we have you to thank that she is still here at all. So let us go see her."

The little party was made up of Willis, Sir Thomas, Holmes, and myself. Parker remained behind with White and an utterly distraught Trevor.  
The footman unlocked the door leading down to the cellar of the old house. It was pitch-dark, but the smell of hot metal told us a lamp had been burning for some time. Our own light was hardly enough to cover the whole area.  
"The game is up, m'am." Called Holmes eventually. "We know you are here."  
Finally, the rustle of fabric gave away her whereabouts. A sob followed, and a figure, dressed as a harlequin, stepped into view.  
She was a pitiful sight, with her head bowed and her shoulders sunk- a perfect allegory of defeat.  
"So be it. Take me. I haven't the nerve to sit in the dust any longer."  
Sir Thomas froze at the sound of that sweet voice. "Martha?? Is that you?"  
The woman lifted her head to reveal an even ghastlier sight, for that white makeup which marks the Italian harlequin, had been distorted by a long stream of tears. Some dust clung to the white-and-black paste covering her face, tinting parts of it a dirty grey.  
I could understand how no one had recognised her as the lady she was, for anything feminine about her appearance was masked by the costume.  
"Yes, Thomas. It is me. Although I understand your own wife is the last person you's expect to see at this sort of party."  
Holmes spoke up before Sir Thomas could do so. "It would be wiser to continue this conversation upstairs where there is light and warmth."  
The request never received an answer- neither was it met with resistance. We simply followed him.  
In the hallway, we encountered Hayes, the temporary page. My colleague muttered something in his ear, to which the boy nodded and left for the music room. We then progressed into the smoking room, to hear Lady Peacock's story.  
A new set of tears was streaming down her cheeks when she lifted her head to look her husband in the eye. She had resumed something of her natural grace, now she was sat in the comfort of a sofa.  
"Would you like to recount tonight's events, or would you prefer I do it for you, m'am?" asked Holmes.  
Lady Peacock gently shook her head. "No, I need to confess my own sins, Mr. Holmes. You see, I never intended to cause any harm but...." a loud, ugly sob shook her body, "I killed that man Huntley! That awful, awful man!"  
"You killed Huntley?! But why, for god's sake! What's the man ever done to you?!"  
"More than you might think, Thomas. But...before I tell you my terrible tale- you must make one promise."  
Her husband considered for a while. "I...suppose it is only fair. What do you want?"  
"You must promise me that you will believe every word I tell you. I only came here to convince myself of the truth- and to talk to you. All I did, I did to save face- yours as well as my own."  
"Very well."  
"Thank you. Now, it happened as follows: I have had reason to believe you were unfaithful for about a year- however I did my best to trust you, and vanquish those thoughts- but, as time went on, and you spent more and more time away from home, it became harder to maintain my trust in you. I started to feel lonely...abandoned even. I tried to speak to you about it, but you always dismissed my concerns. Then, in August a letter arrived at the house- it was addressed to me. It's contents were terrible...someone named Huntley, who claimed to be your Butler at another house, demanded money to keep quiet about your supposed other household. He mentioned a harem of young men..." Lady Peacock took a deep breath. "I said I would do nothing before he could not prove it. Huntley replied by sending me an invite to tonight's masquerade...he told me to see for myself, and that I should give him the money that very day."  
"How much did he ask of you, M'am?"  
"£10.000..."  
"A handsome sum..."  
Lady Peacock nodded. "Larger than anything I could muster."  
"But your husband could since he had just sold his estate."  
Sir Thomas' hands were curled into fists. Confusion and anger were written on his face. "That blaggard...To think I trusted him all those years?? Whatever prompted him to turn against me in such a cowardly fashion?!"  
"We can but speculate, but the sale of the house seems a likely-enough motive. After meeting his new masters, Huntley knew the end of his career had come- instead of speaking to his employers however, he realised he could make a considerable profit by blackmailing his innocent master's wife."  
"But why go to my wife? She has nothing to do with the whole matter! And why would he want to sabotage my marriage?"  
"Well, Huntley had no desire to risk his good reputation- at least that is how I read it." Said Holmes with a shrug. "As to the latter point, it is impossible to say now. A personal motive seems to be the most likely explanation. Jealousy readily suggests itself to me."  
Sir Thomas gave a start at the idea. "What?! That's ridiculous! I never laid hands on my staff! Most of them are former rent boys whom I picked off the streets and offered a future! Those boys have been through enough!"  
"Not so, Huntley..."  
"No, I hired him following the suicide of his former employer, and dear friend- oh good God!"  
"So..." Mrs. Peacock muttered, her consciousness clouded with her own problems. "All those....handsome men aren't...?"  
"No, Martha...but, I must be honest with you...there have been some... Huntley was quite right. I often hosted these events to give men of...well..of my sort a chance to be free- if only for an evening. And I did enjoy my share of intimacy."  
She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for quite some time.  
"I would very much like to finish my story, if you don't mind, gentlemen...Where was I...? The costume- of course. I...I had a costume made, which was certain to disguise my features- and anything the suit could not hide, my corset and makeup certainly would. Anxiously, and with a heavy heart, I waited until the 31st. I considered returning home- to somehow pay that dreadful man, and never think about it again. But then I realised that he might ask for more- again, and again- bringing certain ruin upon us. So I dressed up, took my invitation, and attended the party." she paused again to breathe. "Well...after I confirmed what I feared most, I went to seek the man out who was holding me on a leash like a pet dog. When I saw him...with his air of superiority, and that satisfied grin on his face, something took hold of me. I never meant to harm him- I don't believe I really understood we were standing at the top of the stairs- I simply pushed him...and he fell...only when he lay dead at the bottom of the staircase, bleeding, did I grasp what it was I had done. I screamed in horror, and ran away. I had hardly reached the front door, when I heard footsteps nearing me. I hid in the cabinet, intending to wait until everything had calmed down before finding a way out of the house...Which I did- but rather than outside, I found myself locked in the cellar." It must have cost lady Peacock considerable strength to restrain her emotions.  
"Now that you know the truth, gentlemen, I would very much like to know what you intend to do with me?"  
"Given the fact that there is much at risk for all parties involved, I believe we can settle for a quiet solution..." said Holmes sombrely. "Especially because you strike me as an honest woman, Lady Peacock, who was driven to extreme measures by fear and blackmail. As you said- you were merely trying save face. Of course the Butler's death will have to be accounted for, but I will gladly use my influence to tell the police he died of an unfortunate fall down the stairs."  
Husband and wife exchanged a look of confusion.  
"Mr. Holmes...are you suggesting it was not the fall which killed him?"  
As if in response to Sir Thomas' question, there came a loud bang against the door, followed by a bellowed "No! No! Oh god! Let me go!"  
"Shut your trap! I'm not going to hang for this, you hear?!"  
We sprang to our feet. The sound of china breaking echoed in the hall. We arrived at the scene seconds later, only to find Willis and Parker rolling on the ground together.  
"Watson, quick! Separate them!"  
I did as he asked, but only the three of us together managed to separate them eventually.

Chapter 8 – The solution

Fire gleamed in the young Scot's eyes. "Not a word, Parker! They can't prove anything!"  
"Perhaps, but I know what happened." Holmes' voice was stern, but his manner relaxed as he lit a cigarette. "A confession would bring you a considerable advantage, as it is the only way we can help you."  
The boy looked at his partner in crime with reddened cheeks and eyes, but remained silent when he received nothing but an icy stare.  
"Well, we can do it like so- I will lay the facts before you, and you will correct any little error I might have made." My friend suggested patiently. He had had dealings with similarly stubborn criminals in the past. "I will start by continuing the chain of events we we were discussing before you appeared. You heard Lady Peacock's cry of distress while you were in the cellar. It never struck me as odd to see the two of you come out of that door until the death of the Butler. What was the footman doing in the cellar? Why was he in the house at all?"  
"Many of us took on other roles tonight."  
Sir Thomas shook his head. "Not you, Willis. What were you doing down there?"  
"Hiding something." Continued Holmes. "You ran upstairs to prevent anyone from going downstairs. By appearing at the scene when you did, you ascertained that you would be asked to help. You knew nothing about her presence, which means you were entirely honest when you told us about the strange person dressed as a harlquin and "making eyes at Sir Thomas", as you put it, Parker. She had nothing to do with your deed, so you saw no reason in holding it back. However, you did not split to search the house as you said you would- or you did, but only very briefly. Your first mistake was to tell me you had started your search in the attic, when there were no footsteps matching your boots atop the stairs, Willis. Instead, you went to the dining room, where you planned to resume the real coup: which was to steal from Sir Thomas."  
Our host froze. "What?! Is that true? You were stealing from me?!"  
"It was his idea!!" Parker blurted out. His companion then hit him on the back of the head.  
"I said shut it!"  
"No! I can't go on lying, Willis! Don't you see they found us out?! None of this would have happened if you'd been honest!"  
"Ach, god-damn it..." Willis' voice was weak with resignation. "Fine...have it your way. It's your fault if they hang us..."  
Parker frowned, then turned to us. "Sir Thomas took me in about three years ago, when I'd just turned 18...Willis had already been here some time before that. We were lucky to have someone who looked after us, and took us for what we were. Well, somehow we ended up together. We were so happy, and everything was fine, until Willis came up with the idea of eloping...somehow. It was just a fantasy at first. We'd often dream of running away together, but I knew there was nowhere we could go. At least nowhere where we could be the way we were here. Still, somehow neither of us could let go of the idea...until one night, we made a plan to steal little items from the house- things we could sell but no one would miss- knives, candle sticks- picture frames- that sort of thing..."  
"But Huntley found out, did he not? He blackmailed you." Holmes' voice was low and sympathetic.  
"Yes, sir. He asked for one third of our earnings. He threatened to tell us off with Sir. Thomas.  
"So when you found him bleeding in the dining room, you saw your chance to rid yourselves of him."  
Parker nodded.  
"Willis took one of the candle sticks and finished the job. But Parker is known to faint at the sight of blood, so you agreed to send him back in- for one so you could avert suspicion, but also to keep him from fainting."  
"Aye..." Willis raised his voice at last. "And I thought he'd give us away if he were the one to tell them Huntley had died..."  
"And when Parker did faint, you couldn't bring yourself to leave his side, is that not so? For despite everything, you love each other..."  
The footman clenched his jaw. "I saw him sat there...the old bastard...didn't ken he was injured until the moment he turned around and looked at me with his bleeding nose. But it was too late...I was already about to strike. Killing was never part of our plan, and I pray to god I never have to do it again..."  
There was a moment's silence before Holmes spoke again. "That will do, thank you..." he then turned to face Sir Thomas. "As it is in our best interest to keep what happened quiet, and those two men, are unlikely to turn to crime again, I would suggest a milder punishment. Perhaps in the shape of a journey to America aboard a transport ship full of tea?"  
Our host nodded wearily. "One will be leaving from London on Monday."

Epilogue

Holmes and I were met by Trevor and White the next morning. They thanked us for coming, and informed us of their plans of returning to India.  
"It's a sign, Holmes...I'm not meant to be in England. Death follows everywhere I go. After all this, I'm only too glad to return to my tea...Still- it was good to see you again, old chap. Perhaps we'll meet again in 12 years." They shook hands, and lingered for a while.  
A sombre smile played across my friend's face. "Farewell, old friend."  
Both of them bade us adieu before departing the house which had brought them back to England.  
They still reside in India together and are, to the best of my belief, well-established, and well-respected in the tea trade to this day.  
As for Sir Thomas, he entirely dissolved his Norfolk household, and has founded a charity for the care and education of London's steet-urchins.  
It appears he has reached an agreement with his wife, which allows both of them to live life to the fullest without falling under public scrutiny.

Holmes successfully informed the police about the Butler's death being a tragic accident- after which we were able to return to our safe and comfortable quarters in Baker Street.  
It was not until the after our arrival at home, that I decided to mention the case again.  
"Holmes?" I asked, once we were sat comfortably in our armchairs, smoking, and enjoying a Whiskey and soda.  
"Hmmm?"  
"How did you know Lady Peacock did not kill the Butler?"  
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Because she must have been locked in the cellar at the time of Huntley's death. You see, Watson, there was the smallest trace of makeup on the Butler's suit. I almost mistook it for flour or chalk- but upon closer inspection, I understood it to be too adhesive to be either. I found the same traces on the door of the cabinet, and the cellar door- which means whoever pushed the Butler still had a chance to escape through that door before it was locked. It also meant whoever pushed him must be unfamiliar with the layout of the house. In addition to that, the chips of golden varnish you discovered in his wounds had no possible way of getting there in the hall. But the dining room was practially littered with those baroque candle sticks. No doubt you remember the way I examined them. That was the moment I realised, that, not only did the coating visibly correspond with those I had taken from Huntley, but the very absence of one of the candlesticks proved indicative. Another thing which struck me, was the absolute absence of blood. I found but a single drop, which undoubtedly originated from Huntley's broken nose as he staggered into the dining room, looking for help. Whoever finished him off, must have had enough time to thoroughly clean the place. It was you who told me the wound must have blead considerably- so I hardly doubt you notised the kitchen floor was perfectly spotless- telling us he was already dead upon being carried there. It must have cost Parker all his strength to help his partner transport the body." He looked at me with yet another mischievous twinkle in his eye. "The things we do for love, eh Watson?"  
"Indeed, Holmes..." I replied with some ennui. This was hardly a subject to joke about.  
"Well, I suggest we move on to lighter things. See here." he got to his feet and disappeared in his chamber for some time. All I could hear was the rustling of papers, until a delighted "Ha!" rang out.  
My friend returned shortly thereafter, carrying a box.  
"I have some papers here which I really think, Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance over. These are the documents in the extraordinary case of the Gloria Scott, and this is the message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor dead with horror when he read it."


End file.
